


5 Times Someone Begged Sherlock...

by Yaoiloverread



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Everyone's asking for you, Gen, Sherlock you sure are popular, Slight mention of drug use, Slight mention of premature baby, Slight minor character death (unnamed), slight mention of gore, slight spoilers for season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-16
Updated: 2012-06-21
Packaged: 2017-11-07 21:27:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/435625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yaoiloverread/pseuds/Yaoiloverread
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>... and 1 time Sherlock begged.</p><p> </p><p>Written for this prompt:</p><p>http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/16422.html?thread=97887270#t97887270</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. MUMMY

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, or any of the characters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains slight mentions of a premature baby.

1\. MUMMY

 

His new brother was too early. That was what he'd heard from the nurses talking outside the room. None of them had noticed him yet, although they were supposed to be keeping an eye out for him. Very sloppy - Mummy wouldn't be happy.

His new brother was also very sick, and that's why he couldn't go home with them yet. Mummy was still in hospital too, to stay with him while Mycroft had to go back home every night.

Mycroft sat still in the chair by the doorway. Mummy hadn't noticed him either. She was standing over the incubator, softly stroking the little bit of black fluff on his new brother's head while she hummed a lullaby.

Mycroft sat, and watched.

Minutes ticked by.

Mummy was crying now, tear tracks running down her face. Mycroft startled. Mummy never cried.

He was about to go to her, when Mummy leaned right down, and whispered over the baby's head,

"Please."

He didn't move.

"Please be alright. For us."

"For your Mummy. And your older brother Mycroft. I know he really wants to meet you - he's been coming by every day, just to see you."

Her arms came up like she was trying to hug him, but the incubator got in the way, and his new brother needed the incubator for sleeping.

"Please live. Can you do that, Sherlock? Just for us, hmm?" One tear dripped down onto the baby's face. Mummy wiped it off, before she stood back up and wiped her own eyes carefully.

Mycroft accidentally pushed his chair leg against the floor, and the sound caused Mummy to turn around.

"Mycroft, what are you doing in here?" Her hands were outstretched towards him. Mycroft came and got a hug.

"I wanted to see him. No one let me see him earlier." Mycroft scowled a little.

"Well, come over here then." She moved him over to side so that he could see better.

Mycroft didn't remember being that small at all. Curious, he reached out and touched one of the tiny balled fists. The skin was soft.

Then the baby's arm moved, like he was swatting at flies. Mycroft moved his hand.

"Was that supposed to happen?"

But Mummy was crying again. Mycroft didn't mean to make her cry. He moved back against the wall, as Mummy called in the nurses.

There was a wailing noise in the air, and it took some time before Mycroft realised that he was hearing his new baby brother for the first time.

Mummy was smiling now, and she kept reaching into the incubator to try to calm him down, as the nurses fluttered about the room.

"You're going to be alright, Sherlock. And we'll be with you."

Although Mycroft agreed, he also hoped that Sherlock would soon grow out of being so noisy.


	2. MYCROFT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains slight mention of drug use.

2\. MYCROFT

 

Mycroft sat by his brother's bed, holding his hand. Normally Sherlock wouldn't tolerate this, but he had just overdosed just three hours ago, and still hadn't woken up. Were it not for Mycroft's surveillance, he doubted that Sherlock would have been saved in time.

Now, all he could do was to hold on, and pray.

"Wake up, Sherlock."

No sign of movement. Even when unconscious, Sherlock was still as contrary as ever.

"Please. Wake up." For a moment, Mycroft was reminded the time when Sherlock had been premature. Mummy had cried then.

She had cried again, when Sherlock came to the last Christmas dinner while high. Mycroft had thrown him out of the house, telling him to stop before it was too late.

And now it just might be.

Mycroft's hand shook slightly, before he grabbed onto the arm rest to keep it steady. The movement knocked into the umbrella he'd used earlier to the ground. Mycroft didn't pick it up.

He was too busy looking at Sherlock, whose eyes were starting to open slowly. He leaned over the prone man.

"Why did you do it?" It wasn't what he'd meant to say, and Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise.

"What in the world possessed you to go and overdose on cocaine?" Sherlock mumbled a reply, face half-buried back in the pillow.

Mycroft leaned closer to hear.

"... didn't mean to..."

Mycroft was angry now.

"You didn't mean to. You didn't mean to shoot yourself up full of drugs that deliberately cloud your thinking, nearly KILL yourself trying to do so... what were you thinking? Were you even thinking? No, clearly not. Because of the drugs.

"What are you trying to achieve, Sherlock? Because from what I see, it looks like you're attempting to wreck your life."

"Wouldn't... *yawn* do that."

"And you made Mummy cry. Again."

Now Sherlock looked uncomfortable.

"... I was just... BORED..."

Mycroft stood up, lips pressed together tightly.

"Sherlock. I will make you a deal." He held up a hand to stop Sherlock from speaking.

"Go to rehab. Get well. And I'll find something for you do to."

He left the room sharply.


	3. MRS HUDSON

3\. MRS HUDSON

 

"Please, you have to help me." Sherlock looked at the woman in front of him. "Before he kills again."

"Ah," Sherlock leaned back in his chair, bored. "The plebeianly-named 'Mad Murderer of Miami' in the papers, I assume?"

"Yes."

"And how do you know that it's him?" This wasn't the first time that he'd been faced with a customer insisting that a person they knew was a murderer, cheat, liar, thief responsible for so-and-so. However, it was the first time someone was this insistent about it. He discreetly scanned her again. She didn't seem like the type to think of appearances (the frumpy floral dress, good for the Florida summer but not much else, and the scuffed heels). Perhaps a grudge against her husband? (Domestic abuse victim, yet no follow-up, since husband is more trusted in community - American?)

She looked back at him steadily. "Because he's saying that I did it. Went to the police and all."

Sherlock froze. His hands came up almost unconsciously to form a steeple in front of his face. "Mrs-?"

"Hudson."

"Mrs Hudson, do you mean to say that you came here while on the run?" One eyebrow went up in amazement.

She blushed slightly. "Well, not really. I mean, they hadn't come to arrest me yet. But it was only a matter of time." She assured him.

Before he could respond, the doorbell rang. They both looked at that direction. "Ah, that'll be them. Someone must have seen you come up."

He got out of the chair, but a hand on his arm stopped him. "Please," she begged him. "You must believe me."

He patted her hand. "I believe you. Honestly, the idea that you could be responsible, particularly for the third murder... now where would YOU even find a backsaw, much less know how to use it. Idiots, the lot of them. It's only a matter of making them figure that out."

Sherlock opened the door. Two policemen stared back.

"Excuse us, police here. We're looking for a possible suspect in the recent murders-"

"If you are looking for the murderer, I suggest you head back to the police station and ask that man where exactly he was on the 15th. Good day." And he slammed the door shut.

He turned back around. Mrs Hudson looked a bit scandalized.

"You could have at least invited them in for tea. It's only proper."

"Somehow, I doubt that will help." He picked up his violin. "Any requests?"

And they spent the rest of the day listening to Beethoven and ignoring the ringing of the doorbell.


	4. LESTRADE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains minor character death (unnamed).

4\. LESTRADE

 

Lestrade rubbed his forehead. The last case wasn't going well, not at all. Three girls dead, and another one missing. No similarities between them, apart from the general appearance - dark-haired, slim - and they had no other leads. The only reason why the cases had been linked together was because of the MOD. It was definitely... recognisable.

Normally, he'd have called Sherlock in, of course. But the superintendent had been doing some investigating after Donovan's latest complaints, and now the MET was required not to 'bring in any layabout off the streets to do their jobs for them', regardless of the results.

Donovan had enjoyed kicking him out of the last crime scene, a fortnight ago. Sherlock had stormed off in a huff, but not before hinting of some of her activities with Anderson. And that was an image he didn't need now. Or at all.

He hated to say it, but it seemed like they needed to bring Sherlock in. He desperately hoped that Sherlock wouldn't be too insulting about it.

He dialed the number.

"Lestrade. Three dead girls, another to follow. How's the case going? Not too out of your depths, I hope." The tone was mocking, but underneath it, Lestrade might also have heard a hint of boredom.

"... Good. It's going fine." It definitely wasn't, but damn if he was telling Sherlock that.

"Don't lie, you don't know what to do. Like always," as an aside. "It's all in your tone."

"In my... look, Sherlock, I'm just... we need you here. There's no links between them, we don't have any suspects-" he cut himself before he could continue.

"Why?" And now Sherlock was definitely pouting. "If you will recall, the last time I went to Scotland Yard I was booted out quite roughly. Donovan still feeling frustrated over what I said, even though it was the truth?"

"True or not, Sherlock, we really didn't need to know exactly what Donovan and Anderson get up to in their spare time. Look, this is a tough case. I'm asking you to come in."

"Well, if Donovan would insist on being so obvious, then she shouldn't mind me pointing it out to her."

"That's not the point."

"Then what is?"

Lestrade sighed again.

"Look, could you PLEASE come down, and try to help us figure this thing out?"

Sherlock huffed.

"You still have the orders from your superintendent. And you're not the type to break rules."

"Well, in this case, yes I will. There's a girl's life on the line, Sherlock, and we need to find her. But we can't, because we don't know where to start."

"And that's where I come in."

"Yes. Look, I'll take responsibility, OK? Just come in, and see what you can do to help, OK?" He tried to keep the exhaustion out of his voice.

"... Fine." The phone disconnected. Lestrade leaned his head against the back of his chair for a moment, then got up. He'd have to warn Donovan and Anderson before Sherlock came.


	5. WATSON

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains spoilers for the end of Season 2.

5\. WATSON

 

"You bastard. You utter bastard."

Facing the tombstone printed with the name in white, a stark contrast to the polished black surface. Could see a reflection standing in front of this smooth rock, unsteady on their feet.

"I've meant to come visit sooner, because of the blog, you know. I wanted to see who could possibly put up with Johnnie for so long. So different when he came back, like it'd sucked all the life out of him. Too much sun, and no sunscreen."

A hasty giggle cut short, hand stuffed into mouth. Couldn't have anyone else coming here.

"Didn't want anyone to help, always too proud. Then he met you. I read it in the blog, you using my old phone to call a serial killer. And I thought Johnnie didn't have any sense. Bonkers, the lot of you. Two mad men in a house, with a skull. All playing happy families."

A swig of the bottle in the hand. Wiped at the face with a palm.

"I always meant to visit. But then you had to just go and die on Johnnie, and now he's moping, and let me tell you, there's only going to be one Watson moping around here, and that's me."

She put down the beer, and leaned in towards the tombstone. Poked it with one finger.

"You better come back, and let Johnnie introduce you to me, because I want to meet the guy he's shacked up with. And you'd better do it soon, because he's not going to wait around forever, you know."

Legs giving way, now kneeling in front of the grave. She took another swig of the bottle at her feet.

"So please come back, before Johnnie offs himself. Because he's strong, but not that much. Not without you around-"

"Oi! Who's there?" The custodian's flashlight caught her in its beam. "You drunk, get away from that grave!"

Hastily stumbled to her feet.

"Go on then, before I call the cops on you!"

"I'm going, I'm going. Bloody men." She weaved her way out of the cemetery, set on finding a taxi.

Behind her, the beer bottle stood beside Sherlock Holmes' gravestone.


	6. SHERLOCK

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains mention of gore, and a minor character death (unnamed).

+1. Sherlock

 

Sherlock dropped to the ground, knees buckling beneath him. He'd just killed a man - one of Moriarty's underground generals, the leader of a specialized hit squad. The ones hired to dispose those he care- was fond of (John, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, and maybe even Mycroft, if only to make the search for Moriarty's network easier. Then again, there was the whole 'setting Moriarty on him' issue in the first place), and thus he had a personal vendetta against them all.

He'd picked them off one by one, the rest getting more and more suspicious, and taking greater pains to hide themselves. Normally he'd relish the challenge, but it had been six months since he'd had to leave, and he missed John so much (and how had John worked his way into every aspect of his life so deeply, that every time he figured out a hint of the next perso- target, he'd turn around to mention it to John, and John wouldn't BE there? He missed John, and his admiring remarks, and his awe at his deductions, and he'd definitely demand to be there with Sherlock, but he couldn't get him killed, hence the whole 'pretending to be dead' thing).

But he'd gotten them, in New York, Texas, Nevada, Miami again (he thought of Mrs Hudson, and that quiet afternoon when she first came for help, even then accepting of his rude behavior, and how he lov- liked her for that, and for opening her home to both John and him, because the rent was laughably low for a landlord to live on, and how 'not your housekeeper' became a code for 'I care for you'), and even one memorable Hollywood trip that almost threatened to blow his cover (why there were so many cameras around he didn't care to know). It seemed that the trip to London was an anomaly for the group, and he was grimly glad of it. He didn't want to accidentally bump into anyone he knew before he was done.

And this last one, the leader of the group, who had personally gone after Lestrade in his office, since it was the most public area, and thus the most difficult job (And he remembered the sight of working with Lestrade on some of those late-night cases, where one of the other officers, whatever their names were, he didn't care, they were all stupid anyway, would bring in coffee and doughnuts from across the street - because their coffee didn't just keep you awake, it tasted good too, Lestrade had joked). He was the last one, then it was off to the next state for the next operation.

Somehow, the leader (C--- H-------, former military, disgraced officer, one brother who died mysteriously in a house fire) had found out about his would-be killer, and was waiting for him when he got back to his motel room. They'd fought, and no one came to the door, because it was just that type of establishment, and Sherlock had grabbed the gun, and shot it off in the man's face. The immediately went to throw up in the bathroom, because the man's blood and other fluids had gotten onto his face, and he could feel the chunks and spatters and it was possible that he was going into shock now (how did John do it? In Afghanistan, and then the cabbie, although he didn't stick around for those results, and he was supposed to be a doctor and heal people when he could kill them too?)

When had he fallen onto the floor? He wondered hazily, face planted into the carpet. It wasn't very soft, and was littered with chewing gum and old cigarettes. Not very healthy, or clean, and he'd better get up before he caught some sort of American disease.

The blood though, that was new. It was a bright red, especially against the carpet. One hand moved (slowly, so tired) against the spreading patch there.

(Oh. That's me. I'm bleeding.)

He knew he should stay awake, but his eyes kept trying to shut themselves without his permission. Now that the adrenaline was fading, he could feel the knife wound in his abdomen. It was quite deep.

Bit not good.

But he still had to get away. His following of this last person indicated a meeting in ten minutes, and his associates (highly unsavory, as Mummy used to say) would come looking soon. He couldn't be found next to the body.

One hand moved forward to pull at the carpet. The other as well.

He dragged himself across the floor (slowly, so slow, he could do better than this, come on now Sherlock! - and it was nice to know that John had such faith in him) and the tips of his fingers just brushed the door. He couldn't go any further though, and the spots before his eyes were not helping at all.

Just before he succumbed to the darkness, a stray thought floated though his mind.

(Please God, let me live.)


End file.
